


give your sleep a rest

by susiecarter



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Visions, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: In retrospect, it was a wonder this hadn't happened sooner.They'd been on the road, what, a month at least? Staying in the cheapest motels they could find, when they weren't put up in people's spare rooms or barns or garages. Not that Marcus was inclined to complain. Any night they weren't stuck trying to sleep in the truck was a good night.But it still gave him a moment's pause when the motel clerk glanced up at him, snapped her gum, and said, "Just the one room, and it's a double bed. That okay with you?"(Or: five times Marcus and Tomas shared a bed for various reasons, plus the time it was just because they wanted to.)





	give your sleep a rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/gifts).



> Bed-sharing plus this fandom plus your list of likes and favorite tropes was just too much for me to resist, Dorinda! I hope you like this, and happy Yuletide. :D
> 
> This is set between S1 and S2, during "roadtrip time", and by the end is sort of AU—not branching off from any point in particular, but just ending up in a different direction from where things are canonically by S2. Title from the poem "[Rest before you sleep](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/51587/rest-before-you-sleep)" by Dionisio D. Martinez.

 

 

**one.**

In retrospect, it was a wonder this hadn't happened sooner.

They'd been on the road, what, a month at least? Staying in the cheapest motels they could find, when they weren't put up in people's spare rooms or barns or garages. Not that Marcus was inclined to complain. Any night they weren't stuck trying to sleep in the truck was a good night.

But it still gave him a moment's pause when the motel clerk glanced up at him, snapped her gum, and said, "Just the one room, and it's a double bed. That okay with you?"

Marcus blinked at her. He was almost too tired to understand what she'd said. A bed? Sounded great. That was what they were here for, wasn't it? Bed, so they could finally quit standing up and close their eyes and not worry about anything, even if it was only for a few hours.

But then he turned the words round in his head again. _It's a double_. Oh.

"Sure," he said, before he could talk himself out of it.

Because, after all, there wasn't any danger in it.

Or at least there shouldn't have been, and he knew it; and he knew that the clench in his gut, the lazy heat curling up there unbidden, couldn't be permitted to change that.

He'd be forgiven as long as he repented of it. He reminded himself of that often enough. And he did repent of it—oh, did he ever. Half the reason he'd tried to warn Tomas away from him so strongly was that the moment he'd looked Tomas in the face, he'd felt that danger looming. He'd sinned in his life, yeah. Of course he had. But you'd have to be a fool to set yourself up for temptation like that, and he tried damn hard not to be a fool, when he could manage it.

But Tomas had needed him, as it turned out. Or had needed someone, at least, and there hadn't been anybody willing but Marcus, and somehow they'd ended up partners, even though that was about the last thing Marcus had intended, in the beginning.

And now there was a double, and they were going to share it, and that was fine.

He repeated this to himself and then went back out to the truck. Tomas was already half asleep against the passenger-side window, forehead tipped against the glass, and Marcus huffed out a little laugh and shook his head, opened the door and herded Tomas carefully out and only caught himself looking too long at the fine dark hair at the back of Tomas's neck twice.

He'd been worried about temptation, about his own stained heart. But in the end, he found it was nothing but a comfort, to slide between those cool soft sheets and feel Tomas's presence beside him, his closeness, his weight. His warmth.

It felt good, he thought blearily, just to lie there and know Tomas was near, to _feel_ it.

And that was how he fell asleep: not tormented by his own pointless desires, not angry or tense or ashamed. Soothed, that was all. Soothed and grateful, for the bed and for Tomas and for a night's rest, letting his eyes fall shut in the dark and listening to Tomas breathe.

 

 

**two.**

The next time, there was still a reason.

Tomas had sworn up and down that nothing was broken, and Marcus was reasonably sure that wasn't utter bullshit; otherwise Marcus would have taken him straight to the emergency room, instead of back to the run-down little bed-and-breakfast they'd happened across this morning.

But he was still bleeding heavily. Because he'd let himself get distracted, _again_ ; let the demon get in his head, _again_ , and gone too close to Lawrence Tyler where he was thrashing on the floor, and Marcus had grabbed after him but too slow, too late, always too goddamn late—

The point was that Tomas had gotten Lawrence Tyler's ragged fingernails dug deep into his chest and arm, and Lawrence Tyler's teeth in his shoulder, and to top it off someone had heard the screaming and shouting and called the cops. Marcus had clutched Tyler by the cheeks and gritted his way through the last of the key litany by sheer force of will, and it was a bloody miracle the demon had broken in the face of it.

Marcus took his coat off and pulled it round Tomas's shoulders to hide the worst of it, and hustled him in past the downstairs desk with a quick tight smile for the man behind it. Nice fellow, name of Brown or Baker or something like—but they didn't need to be answering any questions just now.

"Bit under the weather," Marcus said. "Just needs some water and a bit of a kip," and if Brown-or-Baker thought "under the weather" meant "drunk", then so much the better.

The stairs were a bit of a struggle. Tomas was doing the best he could, but he kept stumbling, breath coming short with the pain whenever he tensed up across the torso from the gouges there. Marcus kept an arm round him, kept him moving along as steadily as could be managed, and then it was just down the hall, first door on the left, and they were clear.

Marcus didn't pause for so much as a moment by the bed, but steered Tomas past to the connecting bathroom—much easier to clean up in there than to try to explain bloodstains on the sheets to pleasant Mrs. Brown-or-Baker.

And he could admit, now that they were safely alone and the adrenaline had begun to fade a bit, that there was something soothing in and of itself in the routine of getting Tomas sorted out. They'd each bandaged each other up a few times, by now. Demons had a way of grabbing just about anything to hand when they were desperate, of biting and scratching and pulling knives from drawers or nails from floorboards.

So it was reassuring, in its way, to ease his own jacket from Tomas's shoulders, and Tomas's own shirt likewise; to wet a few washcloths, and run hot water from the tap till it steamed, and press his own hands to Tomas's wounds—to feel Tomas wince, and breathe, and be alive.

He was willing to concede, after the bleeding had mostly stopped, that none of them were quite deep enough to need stitches. Not that that made Tomas any less reckless.

Tomas laughed, when he said so aloud, and then winced, giving him a warm look that wasn't half as sheepish or sorry as it should have been. "See? I told you, I'll be all right."

"Hah," Marcus said. "As if I'll ever be taking your word for it," and he wasn't sparing about it when he poured disinfectant over the bite in Tomas's shoulder, listening with grim smugness to the way Tomas hissed through his teeth at the sting.

But after it was all over, the last of the blood scrubbed from Tomas's pink skin, clean bandages taped down everywhere—Marcus found to his dismay that it wasn't quite enough.

It should have been. But he couldn't stop thinking of the motel. Of having that dim steady perception, even half-asleep, that Tomas was beside him; and of how good it would be tonight, when he'd so nearly been too late—when Lawrence Tyler might just as easily have torn Tomas's throat out with his teeth, instead of sinking them into the meat of Tomas's shoulder.

He shuddered just thinking of it, helpless. It was always so easy to imagine all the ways Tomas might be lost to him, how little it would take and how quickly it might happen. How much it would hurt, and—

And how little of Marcus might be left, afterward.

The beds were two queens. It would be snug, a bit, but—but they'd fit. They could fit.

He shouldn't even be thinking about it.

But he was. He was. And when he'd settled Tomas into the bed Tomas had claimed this morning, he puttered about for another half-hour. Putting things away, he told himself, cleaning up; but it was half a play for time, too, to talk himself out of it.

Except it didn't work. He shut off the lights at last and then before he could stop himself he was—he'd gone to Tomas's bed and was standing over it in the dimness, heart rattling fit to crack in his chest.

"Tomas," he whispered into the dark.

"Mm?"

"Budge up?"

"Mm," Tomas agreed, and rolled away; and Marcus hadn't even known he was asking so he could be refused, so he could tell his fool heart _See, you know what happens when you get your hopes up, so be sensible, will you?_

But he had been, and for a moment, it was the unexpected permission that froze him in place.

He lifted up the sheets, the covers, and eased his way in. He half-expected Tomas to come awake again properly, to turn and squint at him and ask what he thought he was doing.

But it didn't happen. Tomas was warm and pliant, thoroughly relaxed into the bed even though it hadn't been ten minutes since the lights were on, and he didn't say a word to stop Marcus; he only twisted round and settled in against Marcus's shoulder, as if he'd expected this all along.

 

 

**three.**

After that, Marcus knew to take extra care to guard himself—to guard Tomas from himself, more like. To be watchful, and not overstep. He had faith again, he had a partner; he couldn't fuck this up. He wouldn't.

But the next time, it wasn't him. It was Tomas.

He'd been tempted, he could admit that much. Another close call, and those were always worse. He wanted to be closer to Tomas than he ought all the time, but it was harder to resist the urge when one or the other of them had been hurt, had suffered or struggled; the animal reassurance of it, being tucked up body-to-body, was difficult to refuse.

Tomas had sunk into his own head again. He hadn't been hurt, not physically, but he had seen something, been shown something—he hadn't spoken to Marcus about it, but Marcus could tell anyway. Something about his eyes, the faraway look in them, and the grim unsteady set of his mouth. The way he sat in the truck, huddled in on himself, as if he wanted to make sure not to touch Marcus. As if he still felt the mark of some darkness on him, and couldn't bear to get it on Marcus.

Yeah, Marcus recognised that, all right.

They had to drive further than usual. The cops had been called again—by the family, this time—and Marcus wanted to cross state lines before they stopped for a rest.

He'd hoped it might help, that the steady motion of driving, the white noise of the truck's engine, would send Tomas off to sleep; but every time he looked over, Tomas's eyes were open. At first he thought Tomas must not be as tired as he himself was. And then he saw how Tomas had wrapped his hands round each other, and the marks he'd dug into the backs of them with his fingernails. Trying to keep himself awake.

Marcus drove on a bit further without speaking, but he had an eye out for signs along the roadside, and when he spotted a Days Inn, he flipped the turn signal on.

"Don't know about you," he said, keeping his tone mild, "but I'm knackered."

Tomas didn't answer.

But he got out of the truck when Marcus parked it and shut it off, and didn't murmur a word of protest when Marcus sprang for a pair of kings.

He followed Marcus to the room with a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes, trailing an elbow along the wall so he wouldn't walk into it. Sound strategy, Marcus thought.

Even once they were inside, though, he didn't settle. He sat on the edge of one bed and watched Marcus move about the room, but not like—not like he wanted to see what Marcus was doing; just absent, his eyes following whatever was moving in front of them, as if he still couldn't quite stand to let them close.

He didn't speak, though. Not until Marcus had a hand out to shut off the bedside light.

"Marcus," he said then.

Marcus glanced at him. God, it was unfair: even the shit lighting of this cheap lamp fell across the angles of Tomas's collarbones in a way that was—

"Marcus, I thought—that is, could I—" He stopped and swallowed, biting his lip. "Unless I'd keep you awake, of course."

Marcus raised an eyebrow at him, baffled. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, "was there—was there meant to be a question in there?"

He'd meant it half as a real question, half to tease; but Tomas didn't seem to hear it that way, flinching as though Marcus had shouted at him.

"Never mind," Tomas said quickly, a hand over his face again. "Forget it," and only then did Marcus realise what he might have meant to ask.

"No, wait," Marcus heard himself say, and he watched his own hand reach across the space between the beds and despaired of his apparent inability to prevent it. "Tomas—"

"I almost didn't manage to get out," Tomas said quietly. "I'm still half-afraid that it's got me. I'm still half-afraid none of this is real, and the moment I close my eyes—really close my eyes—I'll be back in there with it."

Marcus had caught him by the wrist, and eased Tomas's hand away from his face; and Tomas let him. He wasn't crying, his eyes weren't wet. But they were round and red, and he looked so tired.

"It helped," he whispered. "You, I mean. Knowing you were there, without even needing to open my eyes. If—if it won't bother you—"

"No," Marcus managed. "No. No, of course not. Don't be stupid."

Tomas stared at him for a moment, and then the side of his mouth began to slant up.

"Come on," Marcus added. "Come on, then."

And this time, with Tomas settled in carefully beside him, Marcus ignored the pounding of his heart and dared to lay a hand against Tomas's back, in the broad dip between his shoulder blades. Tomas went still beneath it, and Marcus had a half-second to curse himself furiously before Tomas relaxed into the touch with a long soft sigh.

"Thank you, Marcus," he said, reaching back, warm fingers curling for an instant round Marcus's elbow. And Marcus lay there and didn't move, eyes prickling in the dark, until he was sure Tomas had fallen asleep at last.

 

 

**four.**

Marcus was fine.

"I'm fine," he said, to prove it.

Tomas didn't seem convinced.

Which, to be fair to him, the words had come out faint and rasped, squeezed as they'd been through Marcus's aching throat. There would be a spectacular ring of bruising to show for it, he knew.

Wasn't the first time he'd nearly been strangled, after all.

But he was all right. He was all right, and better still, Tomas had been able to complete the exorcism himself, while the demon had still been distracted by Marcus, pinning him to the wall and tightening its borrowed hands round his throat, smiling with what had seemed to Marcus's blurring eyes to be a few too many teeth.

It was done, and Tomas was still alive, and Marcus, and even Victoria Pierce—who hopefully didn't remember Marcus's throat working desperately beneath her fingers, or the way his thrashing had begun to weaken.

But Tomas evidently remembered it, and didn't seem inclined to forget any time soon.

He stayed silent, grimly intent, and wasn't letting Marcus out of arm's reach, all the way to the guesthouse the Pierces had offered them. They were busy weeping gratefully over Victoria, cleaning her up and soothing her, and Tomas had only spoken to them long enough to accept their thanks and assure them that Victoria would be fine.

And then he'd turned on Marcus. Had taken him by the arm and hadn't let go, hadn't so much as looked away from him.

The Pierces' guesthouse was small but clean, well-kept and quiet—not that they'd seen much of it, nor had the time to rest, while they were working on Victoria. But now the exorcism was over, thank God, and Marcus could afford to go where Tomas steered him, and let himself be settled on the edge of one bed.

Tomas brought him a glass of water, and some pills; anti-inflammatory, probably, and Marcus downed them gratefully, and only had to wince a little from the flash of pain as he swallowed.

But Tomas hadn't missed it, Marcus could see that in his face.

He didn't even ask, this time round. He just took away the empty water-glass, and then came back and got onto the bed, not even sparing a glance for the other. Marcus wasn't even under the covers, had only barely remembered to nudge his boots off his feet before he'd swung his legs up and let himself drop back with a sigh, and he hadn't been expecting it at all; between one breath and the next Tomas was there, arm tense across Marcus's chest, hanging on.

"Tomas," Marcus rasped out.

The arm tightened further still. Tomas didn't answer for a moment, and Marcus couldn't see his face, with the way he'd tucked his head down against the curve between Marcus's neck and shoulder.

And then, into that space, he murmured, "I don't think I could keep doing this without you, Marcus."

 _Of course you could_ , Marcus wanted to say. Because of course Tomas could do it without him. Of course he could. He had a gift, even if it got him in trouble sometimes; even if he couldn't seem to work out how to use it without putting himself in harm's way half the time. He was a good man—a better man than Marcus. Not unstained, no, but in its own way that only made him a stronger exorcist, that he understood what it was to sin. What drove people to it, what it felt like to be tempted. What it meant to be plagued by the fears and doubts that demons liked to dig their claws into.

He wanted to say that, all of it, except his swelling throat had closed on the words; he couldn't get them out.

But it was as if Tomas had heard him anyway, the way Tomas tensed and then sighed against him, and shook his head, hair brushing the line of Marcus's jaw. "I mean it."

And of course he did, Marcus thought. Because what was Tomas if not heartbreakingly sincere?

He couldn't say that either. He lifted his hand instead, and wrapped it around Tomas's forearm: holding on just as tightly as Tomas, in his turn, and that was how they fell asleep.

 

 

**five.**

He had forgotten what he was doing.

It shouldn't have been so easy. He was holding the demon down with one hand where the restraint they'd cobbled together had come loose—the other three were holding, at least for the moment. And with the other, he was holding onto Tomas. Gripping his shoulder, steadying him; reminding him that Marcus was there, that he was not alone.

Maybe that was why. The demon had focused on Tomas; so many of them did. But Marcus had been holding onto him, had been concentrating with everything in him on being _with_ Tomas: breathing in time with Tomas, thinking the words of the litany along with Tomas as he spoke them, conscious of Tomas's shaking muscles and low steady voice as if they were his own.

And when the demon had tried to reach into Tomas, tried to pull his mind open, something had slid sideways or spilled over. Something had overflowed into Marcus instead, and then he was—

He was gripping Tomas's shoulder much too tightly, that was all. He eased that grip, rubbed his fingertips along that bare warm skin in gentle apology; pressed a kiss to the ball of the shoulder, the dip just at the end of the collarbone, and Tomas breathed out a soft laugh against his ear and then caught Marcus's face in his hands. A flash of his smile, warm and bright, as he tipped Marcus's face around, and then Marcus let his eyes fall shut, let Tomas draw him down and kiss him.

God, he would never tire of this. How many times had he had Tomas under him like this?

(—none. Like this? Not ever. Not _ever_. He'd never have allowed himself this, he knew better; he knew better than to let himself—)

How many times had he felt the sweet hot pressure of Tomas's mouth against his?

(—he hadn't, he _hadn't_ , he had thought of it and repented of the thoughts even though he couldn't stop thinking them, but he hadn't ever—)

And still, still, he loved it so. Still, he could imagine nothing better than to lie like this with Tomas, naked and warm, sated, pressed against each other.

There was a voice in the distance.

Marcus frowned a little into the kiss, broke free of it and turned his head. "Who's there?"

"What?" Tomas said, against his jaw. "No one. No one's there, Marcus."

Marcus shook himself a little, and turned back to Tomas; ran his fingertips along the line of Tomas's face, his cheek, and smiled. "Sorry. Thought I heard something, that's all."

Tomas smiled back, and Marcus rubbed his thumb softly over the delicate skin at the corner of Tomas's eye as it crinkled up happily, and settled his bare thigh more comfortably between Tomas's. And then he stopped, and raised an eyebrow. "Really? Already?"

Tomas looked only a little abashed. "Well, look what I have in my bed," he murmured, sliding his hands along the lines of Marcus's shoulders, digging his fingers briefly into the muscles of them—parting his thighs further so he could hook one leg around Marcus's and press their hips together, and fuck, yes, all right, he had a point—

Marcus made a sound in his chest and moved against Tomas a little, and there was nothing in the world like the sound of Tomas's breath catching in his throat; it was impossible not to want him, impossible not to kiss him again.

The voice was louder, this time. Unmistakable.

Marcus twisted away from Tomas, surprised. Who was that? Where were they? What were they saying?

"Marcus?"

"Sorry," he said absently, still poised, listening.

And then Tomas pinched him, and Marcus yelped a little in surprise and looked to see Tomas's eyebrows raised. "Oh, are you?" Tomas said, dry.

"Sorry," Marcus said again, and this time he meant it. "Sorry, I just thought I heard—never mind."

Tomas looked at him skeptically a moment longer; and then softened all at once, smiled at him again and reached up to link his hands at the nape of Marcus's neck. "Don't apologise," he said easily. "Just promise you'll make it up to me."

"Of course," Marcus murmured. "Of course I will," because there was no promise easier to make than that one, and he eased a hand under Tomas, palm spread against the warm curve of the small of Tomas's back, and—

—the voice said, "Marcus! _Marcus!_ Marcus, please—"

—and it was Tomas, Tomas shouting for him. Tomas needed him, and he was—what was he doing? It was Tomas underneath him, except it wasn't: except Tomas's face had changed, he was grinning up at Marcus and his gaze was hard, cold, and his eyes were too dark. His hands weren't at the back of Marcus's neck anymore, they were—he'd wrapped them around Marcus's throat, and Marcus reached belatedly to catch his wrists as the pressure suddenly increased—

And then was gone, and Marcus dropped to his knees and rolled away, gasping for breath, wheezing. He could still hear Tomas's voice, but it wasn't low, heated, murmuring to him alone; it was stern and commanding, quick, and then there was a snarl, and then Tomas was there.

"Marcus! Marcus, are you all right?"

"Yeah," Marcus rasped. "Won't even bruise this time. Yeah, I'm all right," and he squeezed his eyes shut and hoped Tomas couldn't tell it was a lie.

 

 

**and one.**

Of course he couldn't carry on the same way, after that.

He couldn't. He couldn't risk it. He knew his own weakness; he'd never have lasted so long as an exorcist without it, the way demons liked to poke and prod, to dig for the worst things they could find in your head and then throw them in your face. He could have borne that all right.

But it wasn't only about him, not anymore. Now there was Tomas, too.

They were partners. They were supposed to be, except how could they be if Marcus couldn't be trusted?

Tomas had said he didn't think he could do this without Marcus—but he'd been wrong. And perhaps that was exactly what Marcus ought to take from all this: that Tomas would be better off. That it was long past time he went his own way, and let Tomas be.

Sometimes Marcus thought this, and it felt so profoundly true he was ashamed of himself for ignoring it, for going on so stubbornly at Tomas's side in the face of it. And sometimes he thought it and felt pierced with doubt; because for every time Tomas had had to pull a demon off Marcus, Marcus had had to do the same for him. How could he leave Tomas to manage alone? Wasn't it selfish of him, to be so concerned for his own soul, his own sins, that he'd abandon Tomas to that sort of danger?

He went round and round about it. He couldn't settle. He took to staying up—keeping watch, he told himself, but really it was just so he could tie himself up in knots, turning it all over and over in his head, and never any closer to sorting it out than he'd been when he started. Never any closer to peace.

It became almost a routine, the nights they weren't busy with an exorcism: that wherever it was they'd stopped, he'd wait until Tomas fell asleep, and then sneak out and find somewhere to sit and torture himself for a while.

He didn't realise Tomas had noticed—not until the night Tomas followed him.

It took him a minute to even pay attention. He thought the figure that had come out the motel side door was just someone else who couldn't sleep, come out to have a smoke or stare at the sky for a bit.

Except then whoever it was leaned against the doorframe and tilted their head and said quietly, "Marcus," and Marcus flinched and looked up, both at once.

"Tomas—"

"Marcus, when was the last time you slept properly?"

Marcus had no answer; and by the way Tomas's mouth went flat, he hadn't expected one.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself. You must know that."

"Yes," Marcus allowed, because it was true. He couldn't wear himself too thin; he'd be even less use to Tomas half-delirious with exhaustion than he would be a well-rested mortal sinner.

"Come on," Tomas said, soft, coaxing. "Come back inside, Marcus." He stopped and bit his lip. "If you're having trouble sleeping—if it would help, we could—"

"No," Marcus said, much too sharply.

Tomas fell silent.

Marcus looked away from him, twisting his head so the light over the side door couldn't reach his face—so Tomas wouldn't see. "No, that's all right," he tried, more evenly, but he could guess already it was too late.

Because Tomas wasn't a fool, even if he sometimes acted like one. "It's a comfort to me," he said quietly, mercilessly.

Marcus closed his eyes.

"I thought it was a comfort to you, too. It seemed to be, until that demon in Syracuse." Tomas paused. "It got inside your head, didn't it? It showed you something."

"Tomas—"

"What was it?" Tomas said, more loudly. "You hardly look at me now, Marcus. You hardly speak to me, you won't touch me. What did you see?"

Marcus had the words to argue; because of course he looked at Tomas, of course they spoke. When there was an exorcism—when someone else was there. It was only when they were alone that it felt dangerous, that Marcus couldn't trust himself enough to risk it.

But Tomas was his partner. Tomas was his partner, and if anyone deserved the truth from Marcus, it was him.

It was just so hard to know where to start. Marcus bit at his mouth and rubbed a hand across his face, shaking his head absently, trying somehow to scrape together the words. "I'm sorry," he managed at last, and then couldn't help but cringe; all that did was bring back the memory of the Tomas that hadn't been Tomas, _don't apologise; make it up to me_ —

"Marcus," Tomas said carefully, and Marcus still couldn't look at him but there was something thoughtful in his voice that made Marcus's belly cold with fear.

He understood. Or he was starting to.

"I can't," Marcus blurted, in a rush. "I wouldn't've—I promise I wouldn't've—you wouldn't've needed to—" He stopped and cursed himself, bit his tongue to punish it for its uselessness, and tried to start again. "I think I should go," he managed. "You'll be—you'll do fine, Tomas, I know you will—"

For half an instant, he almost thought it was the memory again, so intense it was as though he were really feeling it: Tomas's hands on him, his shoulders, his face, and Tomas that close. Tomas's eyes on his; except this time they were bright and intent, searching, and that wasn't how Marcus remembered the demon-Tomas at all.

And then Tomas kissed him. Tomas kissed him and it wasn't a memory, wasn't hallucination or diabolical work. They were standing outside a cheap motel in the dark, and Tomas was kissing him.

Marcus jerked away, startled, and pushed himself back, one hand already unthinkingly raised to his mouth—but Tomas wasn't letting go of him.

"Lust is a sin," Tomas observed, as evenly as if he hadn't just—as if his mouth hadn't just been—

"Tomas," Marcus said, bewildered.

"But love is not." Tomas reached out and touched Marcus's face with gentle fingertips. "And I have felt enough of both to know which this is."

Marcus swallowed.

Tomas watched him silently for a moment, and then took a half-step nearer, closing what little distance Marcus had opened between them; and Marcus bit his lip and trembled, and let him. He let Tomas grasp his chin and bring their mouths together again, and he—he couldn't hold back any longer, had used up every hard-wrung ounce of his restraint and had no more to give.

He reached up and caught Tomas's face between his hands, and this time when Tomas kissed him, he kissed back in a furious reverent rush, everything he hadn't permitted himself, overflowing from his aching brim-full heart at last.

Tomas made a low surprised sound against his mouth. "Marcus," he said, soft, wondering, when Marcus had let him go again at last; and then he smiled and grasped Marcus's hands, and added, "Come on. Come back to bed," and Marcus held on tight, and did go with him after all.

 

 


End file.
